Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Now, as she sat at Nechtan’s feasting table, she observed that her dislike of Nechtan was shared by all her fellow guests. At least she had made a Christian effort to accommodate Nechtan’s desire to be forgiven but, from the looks and glances of those around her, from the stilted and awkward conversation, and from the chilly atmosphere and tension, the idea of forgiveness was not the burning desire in the hearts of those who sat there. A different desire seemed to consume their thoughts.

The meal was drawing to a close when Nechtan rose to his feet. He was a middle-aged man. At first glance one might have been forgiven for thinking of him as a jolly and kindly man. He was short and plump, his skin shone with a childlike pinkness, though his fleshy face sagged a little around the jowls. His hair was long, and silver in color, but combed meticulously back from his face. His lips were thin and ruddy. Generally, the features were pleasant enough but hid the cruel strength of character which had marked his leadership of the Múscraige. It was when one stared directly into his ice-blue eyes that one realized the cold ruthlessness of the man. They were pale, dead eyes. The eyes of a man without feeling.

Nechtan motioned to the solitary attendant, who had been serving wine to the company, to refill his goblet from the pitcher which stood on a side table. The young man filled his vessel and then said quietly: “The wine is nearly gone. Shall I have the pitcher refilled?” But Nechtan shook his head and dismissed him with a curt gesture so that he was alone with his guests.

Fidelma inwardly groaned again. The meal had been embarrassing enough without the added awkwardness of a speech from Nechtan.

“My friends,” Nechtan began. His voice was soft, almost cajoling, as he gazed without warmth around him. “I hope I may now call you thus, for it has long been in my heart to seek you all out and make reparation to each of you for the wrong which you have suffered at my hands.”

He paused, looking expectantly around, but met only with embarrassed silence. Indeed, Fidelma seemed to be the only one to raise her head to meet his dead eyes. The others stared awkwardly at the remains of the meal on their plates before them.

“I am in your hands tonight,” went on Nechtan, as if oblivious to the tension around the table. “I have wronged you all…”

He turned to the silent, elderly, nervous-looking man who was seated immediately to his left. The man had a habit of restively chewing his nails, a habit which Fidelma thought disgusting. It was a fact that, among the professional classes of society, well-formed hands and slender tapering fingers were considered a mark of beauty. Fingernails were usually carefully cut and rounded and most women put crimson stain on them. It was also considered shameful for a professional man to have unkempt nails.

Fidelma knew that the elderly man was Nechtan’s own physician which made his untidy and neglected hands twice as outrageous and offensive in her eyes.

Nechtan smiled at the man. It was a smile, Fidelma thought, which was merely the rearrangement of facial muscles and had nothing to do with feeling.

“I have wronged you, Gerróc, my physician. I have regularly cheated you of your fees and taken advantage of your services.”

The elderly man stirred uncomfortably in his seat but then shrugged indifferently.

“You are my chieftain,” he replied stiffly.

Nechtan grimaced, as if amused by the response, and turned to the fleshly but still handsome middle-aged woman who sat next to Gerróc. She was the only other female at the table.

“And you, Ess, you were my first wife. I divorced you and drove you from my house by false claims of infidelity when all I sought was the arms of another younger and more attractive woman who took my fancy. By seeking to convict you of adultery I unlawfully stole your dowry and inheritance. In this, I wronged you before our people.”

Ess sat stony-faced; only a casual blink of her eyes denoted that she had even heard Nechtan’s remark.

“And seated next to you,” Nechtan went on, still turning sunwise around the circle of the table, “is my son, our son, Dathó. Through injustice to your mother, Dathó, I have also wronged you, my son. I have denied you your rightful place in this territory of the Múscraige.”

Dathó was a slim young man of twenty; his face was graven but his eyes-he had his mother’s eyes and not the grey, cold eyes of his father-flashed with hatred at Nechtan. He opened his mouth as though to speak harsh words but Fidelma saw that his mother, Ess, laid a restraining hand on his arm and so he simply sniffed, thrust out his jaw pugnaciously but made no reply. It was clear that Nechtan would receive no forgiveness from his son nor his former wife.

Yet Nechtan appeared unperturbed at the reactions. He seemed to take some form of satisfaction in them.

Another of the guests, who was seated opposite Ess-Fidelma knew him as a young artist named Cuill-nervously rose from his seat and walked round the table, behind Nechtan, to where the pitcher of wine stood and filled his goblet, apparently emptying the jug, before returning to his seat.

Nechtan did not seem to notice him. Fidelma only half-registered the action. She continued to meet Nechtan’s cold eyes steadily with her stormy green ones, and raised a hand to thrust back the rebellious strands of red hair which fell from under her head-dress.

“And you, Fidelma of Cashel, sister of our king Colgú…” Nechtan spread his hands in a gesture which seemed designed to extend his remorse. “You were a young novice when you came to this territory as one of the retinue of the great Brehon Morann, chief of the judges of the five kingdoms. I was enamored by your youth and beauty; what man would not be? I sought you out in our chamber at night, abusing all laws of hospitality, and tried to seduce you…”

Fidelma raised her jaw; a tinge of red showed on her cheeks as she recalled the incident vividly.

“Seduce?” Her voice was icy. The term which Nechtan had used was a legal one- sleth -which denoted an attempted intercourse by stealth. “Your unsuccessful attempt was more one of forcor.”

Nechtan blinked rapidly and for a moment his face dissolved into a mask of irritation before reassuming its pale, placid expression. Forcor was a forcible rape, a crime of a violent nature, and had Fidelma not, even at that early age, been accomplished in the art of the troid-sciathagid, the ancient form of unarmed combat, then rape might well have resulted from Nechtan’s unwelcome attention. As it was, Nechtan was forced to lie indisposed for three days after his nocturnal visit and bearing the bruises of Fidelma’s defensive measures.

Nechtan bowed his head, as if contritely.

“It was a wrong, good Sister,” he acknowledged, “and I can only admit my actions and plead for your forgiveness.”

Fidelma, in spite of her internal struggle, reflecting on the teachings of the Faith, could not bring herself to indicate any forgiveness on her part. She remained silent, staring at Nechtan in ill-concealed disgust. A firm suspicion was now entering her mind that Nechtan, this evening, was performing some drama for his own end. Yet for what purpose?

Nechtan’s mouth quirked in a fleeting gesture of amusement, as if he knew her angry silence would be all the response that he would receive from her.

He paused a moment before turning to the fiery, red-haired man seated on her left. Daolgar, as Fidelma knew, was a man of fierce temper, given to action rather than reflection. He was quick to take offense but equally quick to forgive. Fidelma knew him as a warm-hearted, generous man.

“Daolgar, chieftain of Sliabh Luachra and my good neighbor,” Nechtan greeted him, but there seemed irony in his tone. “I have wronged you by encouraging the young men of my clan to constantly raid your territory, to harass your people in order to increase our lands and to steal your cattle herds.”